Here at Midnight, a Violin Plays
by Non Timebo Malo
Summary: As long as John is awakened by the chords of a phantom violin, he won't give up on Sherlock. He knows the detective must be alive, must be watching. But what will it take to bring him back? Post-Reichenbach Johnlock, hints at MorMor.
1. Echoes

**Summary: As long as John is awakened by the chords of a phantom violin, he won't give up on Sherlock. He knows the detective must be alive, must be watching. But what will it take to bring him back? Post-Reichenbach Johnlock, hints at MorMor.**

**Pre-slash. M for chapter(s) soon to come.**

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><p><strong><em><span>Here at Midnight, a Violin Plays<span>_**

Sherlock sighed. Even now, three years later, his phone hadn't stopped its incessant buzzing. At first, the messages had been pleas, pleas that grew only more desperate as the days passed. With each rising and setting of the sun, a bit of John's hope seemed to disperse, turning, just as the light of day at dusk, to nothing but bleak darkness.

After a while, the texts became ultimatums, bargaining chips. John started to threaten suicide, saying that if he couldn't join Sherlock in life, perhaps he'd have a better chance in death. As if Sherlock would allow that to happen. As if he hadn't taken precautions, put safety nets in place.

Finally, the texts turned into bursts of anger, slinging pejoratives and enraged curses at Sherlock, who only thought that it was good. He thought it was John finally severing the ties that bound them imperceptibly together, working himself into a deep enough rage that he could finally let go.

But tonight… Tonight was different. Earlier in the day, Sherlock had watched John _limp_ off to the therapist he hadn't bothered seeing, he hadn't _needed_ to see, until recently. He'd watched tears stream down the doctor's pinched, pained face as he _limped_ back to 221B Baker Street in the pouring rain. The moment Sherlock saw John's shaking hand push open the door to their old flat, he knew it would be the very last straw. John was back at 221B for the first time in a long time. Right then, Sherlock knew this couldn't continue much longer; his act was reaching its end, and only for one reason: because _John_ was reaching_ his_ end.

Mrs. Hudson rushed to the door when she heard it snap shut, only to find a battered, broken, and soaking wet Doctor John Watson slumped over, sitting on the entryway floor with his back pressed against the door and his head cradled in his hands. She tried valiantly, but to no avail, to speak to him; the sweet, older woman was met only with the sound of choked sobs. So she did what she knew she had to- she left him to deal with this the only way he could, the only way he'd let himself. Alone. As she walked away though, she turned up the heat in the flat in the hopes of helping the sodden doctor avoid catching cold. As she strode into the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson felt a hot tear stinging the corner of her eye as well. She couldn't bear to see her boys like this.

It was dusk when John finally got up, staggering unsteadily up the stairs. At the landing atop the stairwell, he stopped once more, reaching into the pocket of his trousers to procure his cell phone.

So it came to be that Sherlock Holmes stared blankly down at the new, three-word text message glowing on the screen of his own phone. The one single message in his outbox, the sole message he'd been sending John for the past three long, _long_ years, "This number is no longer in service." simply couldn't properly answer this one. These three words were the precise ones Sherlock had known would be his undoing for years already.

"I love you. – JW"

Sherlock's finger hovered over the resend button of his usual response as he peered in the window of 221B, watching John bring one hand up to press against his face in dire despair. As John limped across the room and ran one hand over Sherlock's violin, quickly wiping the single tear that fell hotly against its strings, Sherlock felt his resolve slipping away, felt, for the first time in his life, his heart seeming to drop on a perilous fall all its own. He couldn't re-send that text again, not tonight. Before Sherlock could decide on a more proper response, though, his phone lit up once more.

"Please… please just come home. – JW"

Not thirty seconds later, John's phone illuminated in response. Entirely expecting to read "This number is no longer in service.", John's heart leapt at the novel sight awaiting him on that screen, finally lighting up the darkness consuming his life like the liquid-silver tail of a shooting star.

"I can't. You know I can't. – SH"

John's heart pounded an erratic rhythm into his ribcage as dizziness overtook him, making him feel as though the world had ceased its rotation for the past three years and now, _finally_, began to spin anew.

"Yo-you're alive." he wrote, then erased it, knowing Sherlock would probably find that rather a dull response, a waste of one perfectly good text message. He was, after all, obviously alive. Clarifying would only be a trifle, a complete and utter waste of valuable time.

"You can. You have to, Sherlock. I ca- I can't do this without you anymore. I can't. – JW"

Sherlock grimaced as images played across the front of his mind, seeming to materialize right in front of his eyes- the way John looked from atop St. Bartholomew's, the way the man's limp had returned, John gently stroking his gravestone as though it were Sherlock himself.

"You can. You're strong, John, stronger than you think. – SH"

John simply shook his head, dragging his fingers ever so lightly along the neck of the violin before answering.

"Why are doing this to me? Why would you do this to me? – JW"

"Not to you. For you. – SH"

"Don't be such a prat. This isn't for me, Sherlock, this is for you. If you wanted to do something for me, you'd be here by now. You'd never have left at all. – JW"

Sherlock snickered. It was incredibly thick, entirely nonsensical that John would ever think that. _Why _would he think that?

"I'm protecting you, John. – SH"

Now it was John's turn to wonder. How could a mind so brightly brilliant, a mind so fully, dexterously capable of understanding even the most complicated of situations, not understand a concept so simple?

"And I'd much prefer to actually be dead than to be dead only in my own mind, in my own heart, a man caged by his own means, living only in my dreams, when you're with me. Yet, every time, I'm awakened, thinking I hear your violin rousing me. And every time I open my eyes, you are, of course, not there, the singing of a violin only a phantom deeply ingrained in my mind. Those times, I almost wish I could awaken to Moriarty himself, come to end my misery. – JW"

_So thick,_ Sherlock thought, _so incredibly thick._ He couldn't deny, though, the strongest, entirely foreign pulling sensation seizing his heart.

"Well, I'd prefer you alive on your own to you dead in my arms. The world without Doctor John Watson? Why, that's no world at all. – SH"

John almost, _almost _cracked a smile at the stark, shocking sentimentality of the text. His stomach turned lightly as he considered it.

"Then what, may I ask, is my world without Sherlock Holmes? I don't only miss you, I don't simply dislike being alone; I love you. I really, truly do. I can no longer live this life without you by my side- I cannot even fathom that anymore. And this, so help me Sherlock, will be my last confession should I be forced to spend another night alone, especially here, back at 221B. It's too cold here without you, I'm shaking. Stop this. Stop this game. Stop this shaking. – JW"

Sherlock watched as an involuntary shiver ran down John's spine. The man was laying himself down, laying himself completely and utterly bare and letting Sherlock in on the one thing that had become the core of his being, the gravity holding him to a life that was driving him mad. Then he sighed.

"If I've learnt anything in the past three years, John, anything at all, if the sum of my experiences is to be aggregated into but one sentence… I love you, too, John. – SH"

"Come home. – JW"

A barrier broke inside John just then, a wall around his heart was irrevocably razed into a million tiny, sharp pieces, pieces that could never be put back together again, not even by the most skilled architects in all of England, in all the world. Hot tears flowed untapped down his cheeks, faster and harder than the rain pounding against the roof of 221B Baker Street.

As Sherlock watched the events inside the window playing out, his resolve, too, came crashing down. This was it, the straw that broke the camel's back, the droplet that overflowed the bucket, the pebble that shattered his shield. Looking up at the stormy sky from under the slight overhang keeping him hidden and dry, Sherlock's mind began to race.

_The moon is rising over the building; it's 7:56 PM. Moran's shift is drawing to a close. He's tired, wants to get home. They'll switch at 8._

Sherlock readied himself to leap surreptitiously inside the flat, muscles poised to make the quickly-forming plan in his mind go off without a hitch. Tossing another quick glance toward Sebastian Moran, he strained to sneak a peek through the window a bit farther away. Sherlock's eyes scanned Moran, leaving not one single detail unaccounted for.

_Darkened eyes- he's tired. No, exhausted. Fresh piece of gum in his mouth- Moriarty is picking him up. He's quivery, keeps looking at his watch- wants to get out. Black stain on his pants- shoe polish, really quite fresh, only recently dried. Not for his shoes. Not for old shoes, it's just a light-duty shine. He bought Jim new shoes. Wants to give him the gift as soon as possible._

Looking down toward the street, he made out the shape of a sleek, black car pulling up outside the building. Why, if it wasn't the man himself- Jim Moriarty. Sherlock had known since that day at St. Bart's that Moriarty was just as alive as he was, and, by the way Jim had kept a rotating guard on Baker Street, Scotland Yard, and all the places John had used as makeshift sleeping quarters, Sherlock knew Jim knew he was alive as well. This game was never set to end so quickly, so easily, as it had that day. Sherlock and Moriarty were too evenly matched- this game was as old as time itself, and it would probably outlive time itself as well.

_ 7:57. Moriarty is three minutes early. Glow from the driver's side. He's texting. He's smirking. It's for Moran. Jim's in just as much of a rush to get Sebastian home as Sebastian is to get home._

Sherlock readied a text on his own phone as he watched Moran's cellular device light up, signifying the receipt of a new text. _He smiled. He actually, for once, smiled. It's Jim then._

"Open the window. Now. Quickly. – SH"

Just as Moran turned his back, John's phone lit up. Sherlock knew the man would do what he was told, and he knew he'd be ready.

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><p><strong>Here's hoping you found that rather enjoyable. A second chapter should be up quite soon- and involve John and Sherlock's (tender, loving) reunion.<strong>

**Do REVIEW! Please ;)**


	2. Ablaze

**Herein lies the reason for the M rating- Johnlock slash and cuddling, enter stage left.**

**Do enjoy! **

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><p><strong><em><span>Chapter Two: Ablaze<span>_**

A flash of lightning whipped brilliantly maddening silver light across the sky, illuminating the icy blue of Sherlock's eyes as they met John's for the first time in three years. John's breath came shakily as he watched Sherlock leap through the window in a show of lithe agility. The moment Sherlock's feet touched the floor of the flat, or maybe even a few moments before that happened, the man dropped his weight to the ground, crouching down against the panel of the wall just under the windowsill and just out of the range of sight of anyone attempting to steal a look into 221B.

"Draw the curtains," Sherlock commanded, his voice so stern that John couldn't possibly have even thought of questioning him, "Put out the lights. Extinguish any and all candles."

John was quick to act, and, after every ounce of light in the flat was no longer ablaze, he turned toward the window. Sherlock was already standing in front of it, running one hand across his violin. He'd certainly missed the thing, though not nearly so much as he'd missed the man watching him from across the room.

Looking up at John, Sherlock couldn't help but notice every detail of the man. _His eyes are darkened, puffy. He's weary, and he's been crying. His jumper isn't sitting near so neatly as it used to- he's been hasty, careless. He's holding his weight oddly, keeping pressure off his bad leg. It's hurting him again, or irking him at the least. His shoe is untied and the laces are wet. He hasn't bothered to tie it in quite some time, ventured out into the rain with it untied. The backs of both his shoes are creased, so he's been simply slipping them on and paying the laces no regard. That explains it. _

"Sherlock…" John whispered, calling the detective back to the here and now.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, watching John's eyes widen at the sound of his voice.

In less than two seconds, John was standing just in front of Sherlock, staring up into the blue eyes of the taller man, eyes that held somewhere deep inside the secrets of three years time, secrets that had been driving their keeper further and further over the metaphysical edge of insanity each and every day.

"I…" John began, but he drew a blank as he realized that he had reached down to grasp Sherlock's hand and place it over his heart. The action had been involuntary, completely unplanned, yet, there he was, pressing the detective's hand against his jumper and allowing him to feel the erratic heartbeat beneath.

"Missed me." Sherlock finished the sentence for John as he tightened his fingers in the warm fabric. When John nodded, Sherlock added, "And I, you."

John looked down just then, diverting his gaze away from Sherlock. It was then that John Watson realized he'd been waiting for this moment for three whole years, thinking it would never actually come to be. And yet, there he was, standing with Sherlock Holmes in a completely dark room once more. This was it.

"I love you…" John murmured. It hardly seemed the appropriate thing to say just then, but it was all John could think of, all he _wanted _to say.

Sherlock's hand tightened reflexively once more as a foreign sensation gave him the strange feeling of falling. But this was a good sort of falling- he wouldn't trade it for the world. Sherlock's mind reeled as the words _I love you too_ came to his mind. Those were words he'd never before uttered, he'd never _dared_ say, not to anybody. Yet, just then, standing there with John, the detective honestly could not think of a single thing else.

When Sherlock spoke, it was slow, deliberate, uncertain. "John, I…" he began, pausing to consider the sudden high-speed chase his heart had apparently decided to take off on, accelerating to speeds only matched by that of his rapid breathing. "I… I love you, too…"

The words sounded alien to Sherlock, as though he could not possibly have actually been the one speaking them. They rolled from his tongue like a foreign language he'd not spoken in quite some time, one he'd learned during some elementary level of grade school and had not bothered to keep up with over the years. They were unusual and shaky, but they brought with them a certain type of warmth that felt like home. Yes, home. That was how Sherlock would describe the sentiment- it was like coming home after a long travel, walking back into the bedroom one had missed so very much for so very long and was finally reunited with.

Before Sherlock had a chance to fully consider the details of the situation, he was taken aback by a warmth against his lips. It took him a moment before he realized that warmth was John's lips pressing upward against his own, moving slowly and carefully so as not to take Sherlock too much by surprise.

John pulled back after just a few seconds, staring apologetically upward into childishly wide blue eyes. "I, uh…" John stammered, "I'm sorry. Was that… too much?" John quite nearly thought that a stupid question. 'I love you' was too much. Returning after three years was too much. Being back at 221B was too much. But kissing? Kissing _Sherlock Holmes?_ Now that was just selfish of him, it had to be. Of course it was too much.

"Sorry?" Sherlock repeated, turning the syllables into a question. "Is that what people who are in love do, apologize? John, I don't believe you owe me an apology. I mean, I actually quite liked it. Why would you-?"

But John cut Sherlock off before he could continue on what was sure to turn into quite a long, rambling sermon. Once again, he pressed his lips to Sherlock's, this time with a bit more intensity. Snaking his tongue out against Sherlock's lips, John danced one hand down onto Sherlock's hip and the other up to his shoulder, the touches feathery-light.

Sherlock's breath was hitching and his mind was racing, moving both much too slowly and much too quickly at the same time. He parted his lips slightly in response to the manipulations of John's tongue, and couldn't help but cant his hips forward when John's tongue shot into his mouth. The motion of Sherlock inadvertently grinding against him caused John to moan lightly, a breathy, needy noise that made the doctor realize just how much he wanted right then. And oh, he wanted _a lot._

But he wouldn't be selfish and he wouldn't be pushy. He knew this sort of encounter could quite easily send a mind such as Sherlock's into a frenzy, either forcing him to think far too much or not at all- and both situations could quite easily turn out to be disastrous. No, this was going to move at Sherlock's pace. Not John's.

"John, I-" Sherlock breathed against the other man's lips, causing John's eyes to flutter open as he pulled back just enough to allow the taller man sufficient space to speak. "I…"

Sherlock was already flying into overdrive, and John could see it in his eyes. "It's okay," John responded, pulling back farther, "We can stop."

"No." Sherlock's answer was firm, definite. "I don't want to stop… I want… _more._"

John cocked an eyebrow slightly. "Are you sure?" he implored, not wanting to take a lustful little beg as permission to steal the other man's first time. "We have time, Sherlock… Nothing has to happen tonight. Or ever, if you don't want it to. I'm here, and I won't soon be going anywhere. I'm ready whenever you are- no sooner, and no later."

"I- I love you, John," Sherlock stuttered, finally schooling his features into a somewhat controlled façade, "I'm ready."

That was all the invitation Doctor John Watson could possibly wait to receive. In an instant, his lips were dancing against Sherlock's once more as he pushed the detective backward toward the bed. Sherlock's coat and scarf were already lying on the floor by the time they reached it, and John's jumper joined the trail before he pushed lightly backward on Sherlock's shoulders, sending the detective toppling onto the bedding.

John's lips travelled down to Sherlock's neck as his hands worked nimbly at the waistline of the detective's pants. Sherlock was tossing his head backward and writhing under John as the doctor sat up only long enough to shrug off his undershirt and to unbutton Sherlock's purple oxford, pushing it backward then pulling it out from under him and tossing it to the floor. As John's lips moved farther downward, he helped Sherlock to get out of his pants as well, and the smaller man's own pants soon followed.

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled, the noise meant to get John's attention.

John immediately removed his lips from the soft flesh just above Sherlock's collarbone, allowing the man to catch his breath and articulate whatever it was that he needed to get off his chest.

"I don't know how to do this…" Sherlock said, the words a bit jumbled and off-tone. "I want this… But… I just…"

"Don't worry," John answered, pressing a sweet kiss into Sherlock's collarbone, "I've got you."

Soon, two pairs of underwear joined the growing pile of clothing on the ground, leaving John and Sherlock completely naked atop the bed, pure skin on skin. John shivered at the warmth, unable to believe it was real at all. Reaching into a drawer of the bedside table as he pressed a comforting kiss to Sherlock's lips, he procured a small container of lube which had spent many years untouched. Hoping it would still work, John unscrewed the lid and coated his fingers in the stuff.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, so John warned him. "Sherlock, this will help us, okay? Just, trust me, yeah? Let me do this?" When Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded, John proceeded slowly and carefully to run his lube-coated hand up and down the shaft of Sherlock's hard cock a few times, slicking it sufficiently to make this a bit easier on himself.

"Ah-h," Sherlock moaned, thrusting his hips upward into John's hand at the sensation. John couldn't help but smile just then, knowing he was the first one to make the detective moan, to give him this sort of pleasure.

"You're okay?" John asked, coating his fingers in lube once more, this time reaching toward his opening and moving his fingers into and out of himself a few times, just until Sherlock confirmed that he was still doing alright.

John couldn't wait any longer. He'd been waiting three years, and he needed this now, needed Sherlock to be moving inside of him, a part of him. He set himself up, his opening hovering just above Sherlock's flagging cock as he kissed the detective again, his tongue playing shapes against the inside of Sherlock's mouth.

"You're sure you're ready?" John asked one more time, still prepared to stop if it were necessary, if this was too much for Sherlock.

"I'm ready," Sherlock answered, his first coherent words in quite a while.

"Okay," John said, then lowered his weight ever so slowly down over the evidence of Sherlock's arousal, allowing himself time to adjust to the feeling of the man inside him. John hadn't really properly readied himself, and he hadn't ever done this with another man, so the feeling took him surprise, the slow stretching of himself around the man he loved. Pain mingled with pleasure, and it was _amazing._ Sherlock didn't move throughout this process, either aware that doing so might hurt John or simply unable to fire off the proper muscle signals. When John had finally lowered himself fully over Sherlock, he rose again, pulling his weight back upward, then thrusting it down once more, harder and more quickly this time.

Sherlock moaned from under him, and, after a few more increasingly passionate thrusts, the man finally snapped into action. Throwing one arm back around John, Sherlock flipped them over gracefully, never fully exiting John, yet still somehow managing to land atop the other man.

The doctor let out a little scream at the sudden spinning motion, the sound equal parts pleasure and pain. Sherlock's eyes flew open at the noise and his body went rigidly stiff. Had John not thrown his legs around the detective's waist and held him there, Sherlock would have pulled out and probably even stood up, judging by the energy contained by the movement.

"Wh- what are you doing?" John exclaimed, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's lower back a bit harder and exerting quite a bit of pressure to keep the man from pulling out of him.

Sherlock's eyes went dark, his pupils blown wide with an odd mixture of lust and guilt. He looked down and away, averting his gaze so as to avoid eye contact. "I hurt you…" he whispered, the sentence only a slight nuance of his heavy breathing.

"You- no, no, no," John said, "Sherlock, it was the greatest thing I've ever felt." When Sherlock looked back at John, his eyes still shone with guilt, so John added, "Please, Sherlock? Please keep going? I need you. I _love _you. _Please."_

Sherlock shook his head slightly, but when John uttered one last "_Please._", his mouth only inches form Sherlock's lips, the detective could no longer hold back. The flood walls were crashing down, an unstoppable juggernaut of nature leaving Sherlock helpless in resisting.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's, initiating another kiss as he pushed back into John ever so slowly. When he bottomed out inside the doctor, lightly brushing against John's prostate, the doctor moaned, the noise driving Sherlock absolutely insane. He pulled nearly all the way out of John, only to slam back into him, his hips snapping faster and harder with each thrust. John's legs hugged Sherlock's back, helping the man to keep his pace and pulling him closer, closer, ever _closer._

As a white-hot burning sensation seemed to pool at the base of Sherlock's spine, he reached a hand down to pump John's cock a few times. John was already so close to the edge that the added friction made him come almost immediately, spilling a slick, warm mess between his stomach and Sherlock's. The warmth, coupled with John screaming, "Sherlock!" pushed Sherlock into his own orgasm at virtually the same moment as John reached his. Sherlock spilled his seed inside of John with only one word on his lips.

"_John._"

It was a long time before Sherlock pulled out. Initially, he simply slumped over atop his partner, resting his head in the crook of John's neck as the doctor ran one hand up and down Sherlock's back comfortingly and carded the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock's sweat-dampened hair. When Sherlock finally did pull out, he rolled over to lie beside his love.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asked, legitimately concerned that this might have been far too much far too soon for the man, that Sherlock's brilliant mind might have driven itself into a shambles.

Sherlock just nodded, his eyes directed toward the ceiling.

John propped himself up on one elbow and lightly kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I love you," he said, letting his lips brush against the man's salty, wet skin.

Sherlock just continued to nod, his gaze fluttering across the dark ceiling. But John knew what he meant, knew that his silence screamed _I love you, too._ And it was perfect. Absolutely, undeniably worth the wait.

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><p><strong>So there's Chapter Two then, in its full Johnlock sexins and cuddling glory. I hope you enjoyed it! <strong>

**Now, have you any opinions? Please do review if convenient. If inconvenient, review anyway. ;)**


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